Chapter 3

I’m woken for the first day of class by my phone going off. It’s not the alarm clock I set, but a message from an unknown number. I heave an angry sigh, and roll my shoulders back like I’m getting ready to fight. Instead, I open the message.

Think about your clothing choices very carefully. The Doe needs to be visible at all times.

Yeah, no...he can fuck off. The message has to be from The Father, because The Son would rather die than make any form of contact with me, and The Spirit would probably send the message written on his dick.

I ignore it. I ignore them. I absolutely do not spend my precious waking moments of the day thinking about Axel’s impenetrable dark stare, or the way his black hair glinted blue in the light yesterday, or how he has several new piercings since the last time I saw him. I refuse to consider the way my heart beat faster in their presence, while a wave of calm and peace washed over me at the feeling of being home.

Nothing is going to ruin my time here, and the first day of class has always been a sacred ritual to me. I’m not having anyone or anything spoil this for me today.

I take my time in the shower, washing and shaving almost every inch of my skin, but avoiding The Doe tattoo. I shudder when I think of it. It could be worse, it could have been done by a butcher with a dirty needle I guess, but that’s of little comfort to me right now. How will I ever explain this tattoo to other people?

It seems absurd but I can’t help but think of the future, of not being able to wear the wedding dress of my dreams, a tank top, a swimsuit…of how it will look when I’m old and wrinkled. Just having to explain why...

Angry tears prick at my eyes.

I used to be a crier. Sad, upset, hurt, angry, emotional? The tears would come so easily. But now I only cry once a year, when I allow myself to grieve.

Angry tears do not count. Those fuckers are not allowed to fall. It’s an insult to her memory to cry over anything other than the loss of her…I shut down those thoughts and turn back to my ritual, slowing down to really focus on my actions. If all of my attention is on my ritual, I don’t run the risk of inadvertently breaking my own rules.

Stepping from the shower, I take my time massaging my favourite body oil – pear, peony and freesia – into my skin. I should probably hate the scent of peonies, but I don’t. I still love everything about the beautifully delicate but resilient flower. The pale pink ones were always my favourite.

I dry my hair carefully, brush my teeth, complete my skincare regime, apply some makeup and then move to my wardrobe to get dressed.

I’m not one of those girls who rolls out of bed looking like a movie star, but nor am I ‘high maintenance’. I like to take care of myself, but it comes and goes in waves. Today, I want to feel good and for me that stems from taking care of myself first.

At least I don’t have to worry about the whole ‘what to wear’ dilemma. The trouble with private universities is that they think they’re still schools. Uniforms and stupid rules. I sigh, eyeing my new Monday to Friday attire. It may take away the problem of what to wear, but it doesn’t exactly fill me with inspiration either. The white school shirt – or blouse for girls – is so sheer it’s almost see-through. Yep, no way am I wearing just that. I slip a white silk strappy camisole top over my bra and then shrug on the flimsy shirt. I button it up and add my all-black tie. For fuck’s sake! We have to wear a tie – though it seems more like a scrap of satin which I’m somehow supposed to knot into some sort of bow…a kitten bow? A cat bow? Pussy bow? No idea but it’s as stupid as its name anyway.

I just about manage to form a basic bow without strangling myself and decide to leave it at that. Maybe one of my dorm mates will see and take pity on me. Or maybe YouTube has a tutorial or something.

I slip on my black skirt, black thigh highs, black shoes and blazer. Yep, that’s black too. It’s like a goth’s wet dream. I don’t understand why they didn’t make the shirt black too. At least then it wouldn’t be so revealing.

Overall, the look is business–smart. And it’s not so bad. But it is ridiculous. At least there’s no insignia to be seen or – god help me – plaid. It feels archaic to be making women wear blouses and skirts in this day and age. This place isn’t even pretending to fake gender equality.

At least I can wear what I like in the evenings and at the weekends.

I meticulously check my books and supplies, then pack my bag for the day. My pencil case is overflowing thanks to my stationery addiction. Nothing makes me happier than highlighting and colour coding shit. I’m going to kick this day’s ass. I have a motivational post-it note for it and everything.

In the canteen – thankfully I’m early enough that none of The Holy Trinity have surfaced from their pits – it’s quiet enough for me to enjoy a bacon sandwich, oozing with the mountain of salty butter and ketchup that I loaded it up with. It tastes better than anything in the world. I groan a little while I devour, but no one is around to hear. I wash the whole lot down with ice-cold orange juice – smooth, no pulp – and head to the LRC to study.

The LRC, or learning resource centre, is just a stupid posh name for a library and it’s the most modern building on campus. A behemoth monstrosity of steel and glass that spans five storeys, and even though it jars with its ancient surrounds, I like it. It’s like a giant fuck you to those who resist change, and I’ve got time for that.

I enter and slip through the modern security system using my student ID card, and look for a quiet place to sit. There’s a twenty-four-hour cafe attached to the centre so that students can get their caffeine fix as they pull all-nighters, so I head there first for a cup of tea.

Tea is life. I’m British so I’m pretty sure it runs through my veins instead of blood. Cut me open and I’ll bleed the perfect golden shade of brown. With milk and two sugars, naturally. There’s usually only one brand I’ll drink – which they don’t have here – so I make a mental note to slip some tea bags into my bag to carry with me at all times. I prefer the loose-leaf variety, but it’s too much of a faff to brew on the go so I save that for in my dorm.

Happily caffeinated, I take a seat and stare over my schedule. I have an hour to kill before I need to find my lecture hall – and still be early – so I send a quick message to my cousin who also comes here.

Odile: Hey Cuz, you up?

Harry: Ugh! No. Have you seen the goddamn time? You crazy?!

Odile: Good. I’m at the LRC coffee shop. Join me. Guess who I ran into yesterday? Didn’t feel like giving me a heads-up? Tosser!

My phone instantly rings in my hand and I hit accept on Harry’s call.

“Harry, I’m teasing. Kinda. But you are a tosser for not telling me.”

“Thought you knew, Odi,” he groans, using my childhood nickname. He sounds half asleep still. “Where the hell else would the most entitled arseholes you ever met go to uni?”

“They weren’t always like that,” I point out. Fuck knows why I’m defending them though. They are arseholes. Entitled too.

“Please tell me you at least had the upper hand when you saw them? Did you look hot?”

“You’re my gay cousin. You don’t get to comment on my hotness levels. Anyway, I think they got to me first.” I hesitate. Should I mention it to Harry?

Fuck it. It’s hardly going to be a secret after my big outburst yesterday.

“They gave me a welcome gift.”

“Was it a severed head? I heard it’s the latest home decor in Vogue,” he quips.

“Hilarious. No, it’s a little more personal than that…”

“More personal than the heads of your enemies, gift wrapped in tissue paper?”

I laugh because that happened two times, and the first time, it wasn’t even a human head.

“What the hell is that?” I squeal, dropping the paper lined box to the floor in fright.

“It’s your Valentine’s gift.”

“But what is it?”

“It’s that mouse. Well, the head of it. The one you said was keeping you awake at night. We caught it and killed it for you. The trap sliced it clean in two.”

“And you boxed it up as a gift?!”

“Don’t you like it?”

“No!!!” I lie, even though I”m strangely touched by the gesture. And a little jealous that they did killing things without me again.

I smile at the memory. Weirdly, not the strangest Valentine’s gift I ever got.

Not everything those boys did is tainted. I can still reminisce over the good times while hating them. If anything, knowing what we had, what they destroyed and threw away like it was worthless, makes me hate them more. Maybe I need to keep reminiscing to ensure I stay angry. Because when I confronted them yesterday, even though I was mad as hell at them, I was angry for all the wrong reasons. And the dreams I had about all three of them last night don’t sit well with me at all.

“Shut up and I’ll tell you!” I laugh and then my face falls when I remember the actual gift I’m referring to. I should be a hell of a lot angrier about it than I am. Hell, they shouldn’t be breathing right now. At the very least there should have been bloodshed. “They gave me a tattoo.”

There’s silence on the line and then Harry hisses out his breath all in one go.

“Please tell me you all went down to The Bull and Bear in Deathfall and chose a design together,” he says, referring to the tattoo parlour back in our hometown where the boys all got their first ink. Harry was visiting that weekend and came with us. I wanted to get ink too but they all put their foot down and forbade it. Ironic, huh, given that they’ve now branded me without my permission.

“I woke up with it, and no memory.”

“Do you think you were drugged?”

“Undoubtedly.”

“Fuck!” he barks. “One of Tom’s?”

“Pretty sure it’s his handiwork.” I reply, idly tracing my fingers over the design through my blouse.

Though god knows how they would have drugged me, taken me there, got me tattooed and back into bed all in one night.

“So it at least looks good?” Harry asks hopefully.

“Ha-ha. Dick.” It does look good though. Not that I want to admit it. I’d never choose it for myself and I certainly wouldn’t ever get a chest tattoo, but there’s no denying it’s both delicate and strong. Beautiful and expertly executed.

“Do I even want to know what the psychopaths have branded you with this time?”

He says this time, because there was a crazy moment when we were kids that I let them talk me into getting a brand. We were all meant to, and as the only girl gang member of the group, I had the honour of going first.

Only, the smell of my burning flesh and my screams were so bad, Spirit passed out and Son’s parents came running. We got caught, and now I’m the only one carrying that particular mark of our fateful friendship.

“A doe,” I whisper. There’s no answer. “Hello? Harry? Did you hear me?” Nothing. I take the phone from my ear and bring it up to my face to check if the call got cut off. It isn’t. As I bring it back to my ear, I catch the end of whatever Harry was saying.

“…this is fucking bad, Odi. I’ll be right there.”

The line goes dead.